


First Contact

by Moorishflower



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Crossover, M/M, Other, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:23:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2255727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of things John likes about Earth. Mind-blowing first-time sex with a man who fills all your quadrants is just one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Contact

There are a lot of things John likes about Earth.

 

There’s the food, for one. Alternian fare and army rations have far too much in common: easy and fast to prepare, plentiful ingredients, some sort of sauce, and done. Human food is  varied , with everything from decadent, rich pastries to light, cooling soups (soups! cooling!), and the first year he’s with Sherlock he spends probably more of his pension than he ought to just  tasting things. Even the human equivalent of Alternian food -- the fast, easy, plentiful variety -- has different types, different flavors. If he wants beans on toast, he can not only change what kind of beans he uses, but also  what kind of toast . The mind boggles at the possibilities, and Sherlock probably thinks he’s some sort of wayward jungle-dwelling barbarian when John brings home seven different kinds of jam in one go (he settles, eventually, on blackberry, no seeds, or strawberry, in a pinch).

 

He likes humans, too. He likes Lestrade, whose sense of humor is, perhaps, a bit less violent than John’s, but otherwise meshes nicely, and he likes Molly, who is shy and sweet and unassuming, and it goes without saying that he likes Sherlock, who, being neither fully troll nor human, manages to exist in the liminal spaces between Alternian culture and human decency.

 

And now here is yet another thing to like: the attitude towards drone season. Alternia has come a long way since the Condescension, and Her Imperial Luminescence did away with the mandatory slurry collection ages ago, but there’s still an element of invasiveness to the drones, which, although rendered harmless, still sort of barge in and stare while you’re in mid-coitus with your concupiscent quadrants. The terror of being unable to perform, of being culled for not having a quadrant filled, is gone, but John’s had a few partners for drone season, and every time he felt, well. Pressured.

 

On Earth, it’s different, There’s an Alternian embassy in nearly every major city, but instead of sending out drones, they let the trolls and the half-trolls come to them. Every half-sweep (sorry, ‘year’), the embassy sends out little care packages, complete with sanitary wipes (helpful, if a bit creepy) and glass containers for your slurry; there is no rush to get it back to them, and no demand to keep the birth rates high. No one is required to participate, whereas on Alternia you had to do everything outside of shooting the damn things in order to get the drones to leave.

 

And he knows all of this, logically, but it’s his first full year on Earth, and so he’s still a bit surprised when he comes back to the flat to find two packages waiting just inside the front door. One is addressed to him, the other to Sherlock, and he carries them upstairs under his arms, ducking his head to keep his horns from bumping the door frame. Sometimes he wonders whether he’s not secretly a burgundy; olives are supposed to be tall, he thinks, with short horns and big hands and feet, but no, he’s somehow gotten the short-and-stacked gene. Grunting, he sets the packages on the kitchen table and shouts, “Sherlock! You’ve a package!”

 

He goes about his usual after-work routine: make tea, examine bills, small snack before dinner (assuming there is dinner, and Sherlock doesn’t keep him up half the night researching something ridiculous, like cockroach wingspans or the average shoe size of women in Flanders). He’s hidden a package of chocolate digestives above the sink, where Sherlock does not typically venture, likely because he worries that if he gets too close John will make him do the washing-up for once. He pulls the package out now, and is helping himself to a few biscuits when he hears a sound not unlike a small elephant thundering across a wooden deck. Sherlock enters the kitchen in a whirl of sky-blue silk and mussed curls, which means he was asleep, good for him; his horns have been polished to within an inch of their lives, and his pale, human-pink skin is flushed a delicate purple around his cheeks. The realization that his new flatmate was essentially minor royalty had originally flummoxed John so badly he’d needed to stay the night in a hotel, but now, when Sherlock reaches surreptitiously for a biscuit off his plate, John doesn’t even hesitate before smacking away the wandering hand.

 

“ John ,” he says, part whine and part reprimand; John doesn’t give in, and Sherlock flounces to the table to investigate the mail. “I’ve a package?”

 

“Yeah, the one at your spot. Please tell me you didn’t order something terrible off the internet.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer right away, which isn’t always the best response, but is far from the worst, so John lets it slide. He stirs sugar into his tea, dunks a biscuit, and eats it while it’s still hot and just beginning to disintegrate; there is nothing from Alternia that he can compare it to. Unadulterated culinary bliss. He closes his eyes and savors the moment.

 

“Oh,  dull .”

 

And the moment is broken. Sighing gustily, John gathers his plate and his cup and moves them  to the table, where Sherlock is pawing through his mail with as sour a look as a person can have without physically transforming into a lemon. “I told them to remove me from their list,” he says, voice catching on a snarl, a sound that sends pleasant tingles from the tips of John’s horns all the way down to his shame globes.  No, bad , he tells himself, and clears his throat.

 

“Might I ask what the mail’s done to offend you today?”

 

“The Alternian Embassy,” he hisses, and John raises his eyebrows. “Every year since I turned eighteen, they have sent me this same blasted package, no matter where I go, no matter how many times I tell them I am not in need of their  services , they keep  finding me .”

 

John cranes his neck, trying to see over Sherlock’s arm, and…

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

He recalls Sherlock mentioning being married to his work, but...never?

 

Visibly fuming, Sherlock jostles the box until its contents (latex gloves, sterile container, sanitary wipes, lubricant, pamphlet with the title ‘Nookworms and You! Your Guide to Organic Concupiscent Aids’) are settled enough for him to fold the flaps back over, then throws himself into the chair opposite John with such force that the wood makes an absurd squealing sound, and they both freeze for a moment, John convinced that Sherlock is about to go arse over kettle and Sherlock looking like he’s just stepped in a dead jellyfish.

 

The moment passes. John begins to wheeze with repressed laughter, and Sherlock, after a moment, joins in with a throaty chuckle that makes John’s horns vibrate. He takes the opportunity to swipe one of John’s biscuits while he’s distracted, which makes John laugh harder, until Sherlock has effectively forgotten about the indignity of biology.

 

John, unfortunately, has not.

 

\----

 

He eventually gets around to opening his own package, though not until four days, two high-speed chases, and one armed stand-off later. By the time he gets home again, exhausted, sore, and bleeding, the last thing he wants to think about is pailing.

 

Sherlock, as is his custom, inhales a quart of leftover bibimbap and then falls asleep on the sofa, his small horns indenting the armrest, one long, pale hand draped over the edge and trailing on the floor. His claws are meticulously filed and cleaned; if it weren’t for the horns there would be nothing to betray his Trollish heritage. At least, nothing immediately visible. John has never seen a half-troll in the nude before, and he wonders if...

 

Christ, it never stops, does it? The middle of the sweep rolls around, and John’s body goes insane. Shaking his head at himself, he fetches his laptop from his bedroom and brings it downstairs, determined to sit down and finish a blog entry.

 

It doesn’t quite work like that.

 

He keeps getting distracted by Sherlock, the long line of his neck, how strange and pale and fragile-looking his skin is. John could walk over and trail his claws down Sherlock’s arm, and the skin would part so easily, so  quickly , purple spilling over his fingers, but he wouldn’t, he  couldn’t , Sherlock is his...what? His moirail? They’ve never officially discussed it, but John’s relatively certain that no pale relationship will ever live up to this one: him keeping Sherlock sane and safe, Sherlock keeping him from killing himself out of crippling boredom and depression. They might as well be made for each other, in that respect.

 

But it niggles at him. Sometimes, when Sherlock doesn’t think he’s looking, the expression on his face is...intense. Hungry. Were it anyone else, John would have jumped them long before now, but this is Sherlock ‘Married to My Work’ Holmes, he of the abiding disdain for drone season and the messiness of living bodies moving together. The possibility of a ‘rails with pails sort of arrangement is so remote as to be laughable, and only in his darkest, most buried thoughts has John considered anything  flushed with Sherlock.

 

Mildly disgusted with himself, John saves his entry as a draft and sets his laptop aside. On the sofa, Sherlock twitches and groans a bit, his dressing gown falling open to reveal a swath of pinkish skin just below his clavicle. John stares at it longer than strictly necessary, and then shoves himself up out of his chair and flees to the kitchen to make some tea.

 

He doesn’t even get that far. Before he even sees the kettle, he sees the package, still sitting on the table, and he’s reminded that drone season is fast approaching, and he doesn’t have any of his concupiscent quadrants filled. There’s Sarah, at the clinic, but she’s human and he’s not sure if she’d be amenable to the idea. Still, the thought of spending the next few weeks alone isn’t a pleasant one, and, with the sigh of a troll whose life had thus far consisted wholly of a series of second-choice options, he picks the tape apart with his claws and unwraps his mail.

 

\----

 

He tells Sherlock the next day.

 

“I’m thinking of spending drone season with Sarah,” he says, and Sherlock stiffens, then slowly turns his head to stare at John from across the table. They’re in the morgue at Barts, and Molly, for once, has absolutely refused to cater to Sherlock’s whims (chief of which involved her finding him a sample of Ebola, for ‘science’), which leaves John minding his wayward flatmate while Sherlock picks disconsolately at a severed foot. Something about fungus around the toenails, John thinks he heard, but he wasn’t really paying attention. He was, in fact, busy staring at the curve of Sherlock’s arse, shifting underneath the fine, tailored cotton of his ridiculously expensive trousers. Sherlock either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. John isn’t sure which makes him unhappier.

 

“Drone season with Sarah,” Sherlock repeats, his voice that deep, bass rumble that John has always associated with highbloods, and with the chucklevoodoos in particular, though Sherlock, being half-human, should barely any access to his own psionics. Certainly he shouldn’t be able to output enough to make John respond the way he does, and  yet , all the same, he finds himself wanting to bend his head forward, bare his neck in submission, allow Sherlock to grab him by the horns and…

 

“Sherlock,” he says, voice pitching low and tense, a warning snarl in his throat. To his credit, Sherlock looks away immediately, and the fledgeling attempt at psionic manipulation ceases, leaving John feeling a bit wrung-out, and a  lot worked up. “Yeah, with Sarah. You know, pretty, smart, funny, you got her kidnapped by Chinese smugglers…”

 

“I haven’t forgotten.”

 

“Well...good. Because she’s basically my only option, and I’d rather it didn’t get mucked up. Don’t much fancy spending the season with just my hand.” Well, and the concupiscent aid in his drawer, buried underneath his trousers (because Sherlock had already figured out his gun was under his socks, so he’d needed to find a different hiding place). But he doesn’t mention that, and Sherlock doesn’t ask.

 

Sherlock, in fact, is not saying much of anything, only staring at John with that unsettling pale gaze; there are times when John thinks that Sherlock looks more like a troll than even he does, with his black curls and his elegant highblood cheekbones. In moments like these especially, when his expression verges on the predatory, when his fingers flex like talons and he doesn’t blink for long, uncomfortable seconds.

 

The door opens, and Molly scoots in, carrying a cup of coffee and pointedly ignoring Sherlock. The spell is broken: Sherlock blinks, and John looks away, heat rising along the back of his neck.

 

Sherlock mutters something, too low to make out properly, but John thinks it might have been...’unacceptable?’ “Sorry?”

 

“Nothing. Molly, fetch me the other foot, will you?”

 

“Fetch it yourself,” she says primly, and sips her coffee while Sherlock looks pained. John glances back and forth between them, half-wondering if they need a room to themselves before he remembers that Molly is human, and humans don’t do black romance. More’s the pity, really, he thinks some of them would be quite good at it.

 

“Fine,” Sherlock snaps, and whirls about in that dramatic fashion he has, disappearing into cold storage. John and Molly last perhaps fifteen seconds, and then they both dissolve into giggles.

 

\----

 

In retrospect, John realizes that telling Sherlock he was planning to do a nything  with Sarah was a bit of a mistake.

 

It’s a little under 72 hours until drone season officially commences. John feels as though he’s about to jump out of his skin or perhaps wank himself into a coma, Sherlock is prowling around the flat like a cat on uppers, and for some god-awful reason he s till  hasn’t asked Sarah to be his heart for the next three weeks. He’s thought about it, of course, but every time he’s worked himself up to give her a call Sherlock does something catastrophic: first the ‘experiment’ with the wasp eggs (John is of the opinion that wasps are one of those things you Do Not Fuck With, but apparently Sherlock never got the message), then the ill-timed plumbing catastrophe (the bathroom sink is still not functioning as intended, and they’ve been relegated to washing their hands in the kitchen until John can find a plumber that Sherlock has not frightened away from Baker Street for good), and, not even a full day ago, he’d discovered that all of his shoes -- even his tatty, ancient jogging sneakers from university -- had mysteriously disappeared without a trace. “I needed them,” Sherlock had said, and John had thrown his hands up in the air and left the flat barefoot for a bit, briefly amused at Sherlock’s pinched expression. He didn’t particularly enjoy going around without shoes, but his skin is more than tough enough to handle a walk down the street and back.

 

And now this. “Sherlock,” he says levelly, “what is that?”

 

Sherlock glances over the edge of his laptop and makes a dismissive noise. The cnidarian drifts in its little glass tank, tentacles fluttering serenely. “ _ Nemanthus florem _ ,” he says, as if that ought to explain everything. John pinches his nasal bridge in an attempt to stave off the oncoming headache.

 

“Right, yes, I know a nookworm when I see one, but what is it doing  here ?”

 

At this, Sherlock shifts uneasily, like a child who’s been caught stuffing sweets into his pocket. As if he thinks he might still be able to get out of this unscathed. John is happy to disappoint him. “ Sherlock .”

 

“It’s a gift,” Sherlock says, and then, when John does not answer him for nearly a minute, he darts his eyes up again and adds, “for you.”

 

“For me.”

 

“Yes, that’s what I said, please try to keep up.”

 

“You got me a concupiscent aid.”

 

“That is, as I understand it, what they’re used for.”

 

“You got me an aid, for use with...Sarah?”

 

Her name is apparently the wrong thing to say, because Sherlock’s face twists in disdain and he bellows in sharp disgust. “ No . That is exactly the  opposite  of its intended use.”

 

“Then you’re going to have to explain it to me, because I am absolutely in the dark. Use small words, Sherlock, I’m about three days away from becoming a screaming hormonal mess and I am  not  in the mood to deal with your bullshit.”

 

“You…” John raises his eyebrows, surprised. Since when does Sherlock have trouble finishing a sentence? But here he is, perched on the edge of the sofa looking as though he’s poised on the brink of some vast precipice, terrified of falling over. Eventually, he sets his laptop aside and throws himself up, pacing a frenetic track across the sitting room and back again. John watches, not sure whether he should be amused or concerned at the sight of Sherlock Holmes reduced to speechlessness.

 

It doesn’t last all that long. When Sherlock’s pacing brings him back around to John he stops, getting right up in John’s space. The urge to headbutt him is powerful, but worse still is that secondary urge, the one that demands he show his throat and purr and beg for Sherlock’s...whatever he has. No two hybrids are the same, physically speaking, and Sherlock might have all the right equipment under there, or he might only have a nook, or a bulge, and John just  doesn’t know  any more. What Sherlock means to him, or what’s happening between them, or  anything.

 

“I want you to stay,” Sherlock says. “Here.”

 

“I pay half the rent, of course I’m staying.”

 

That gets him another disgusted noise. “ No , no, I mean. For the season. Mating season, or whatever you call it.”

 

“Drone season.”

 

“Yes,  that . I got you this, and I  know  you have that hideous vibrating phallus in your drawer -- “ Damn, he’d thought he’d been rather clever about it, too. “ -- and this way you won’t have to leave, you can satisfy your biological urges and I will have unimpeded access to you and you won’t have to go to  her . It’s a perfect solution.”

 

He feels as though his tongue is three sizes too big for his mouth when he says, “Is that what you’ve been kicking up all this fuss about? You don’t want me to quadrant with Sarah because you’re  jealous ?”

 

Married. Married to his work. Sherlock is…

 

Sherlock is looking at him with those strange, pale eyes, his horns sweeping back over his head in small arcs and his cheeks shadowed with stubble that John will never get, and which he is endlessly fascinated by. He’s breathtakingly beautiful, alien in a way that John only half-understands, and he’s always thought ‘if this were anyone else...’ when it comes to Sherlock. But maybe he shouldn’t. He tries taking a half-step closer, and Sherlock...doesn’t move. He shifts from foot to foot, but he doesn’t move. John tries again, and again, until they are sharing the same space, breathing the same air, close enough that their chests touch and John can curl his fingers around Sherlock’s bird-thin wrist.

 

“Sherlock, are you propositioning me?” Sherlock inhales through his nose, but doesn’t answer. “Because this sounds an awful lot like a flushed declaration.” Still nothing. Just that constant, unwavering attention. And John thinks he’s right, god, he  hopes he’s right, but if he isn’t he will never live this down. “And if I were to tell you that all of my quadrants are  open right now…”

 

He doesn’t even get the chance to finish. Sherlock swoops down, and quite suddenly John finds himself being kissed, ruthlessly and efficiently, Sherlock’s tongue a wet, cool slide along his bottom lip; a hint of teeth there, blunt and human, but so, so tempting, and John opens his mouth to it, tilts his head until their lips fit together just so. And it’s  perfect , the inside of Sherlock’s mouth highblood-cool, tasting of tea and takeaway and the dark, sea-salt undertones of the upper spectrum. Sherlock rumbles, deep in his throat, and John pushes up and up, trying to get as close as he can, trying to crawl into Sherlock’s mouth and live there as he licks at the man’s gums and teeth, exploring, staking a claim.

 

The need for air drives them apart, Sherlock purple-faced and panting, John not much better. His bulge is pressed uncomfortably against the fly of his jeans, and between his thighs he feels damp and horribly empty. Sherlock licks his bottom lip, and John follows the movement, nostrils flaring: he can  smell  Sherlock, the vaguely salt-acidic musk of him, and it is driving him absolutely up the wall.

 

“You need time,” he says, and Sherlock nods, helplessly. “That’s...fine. Really, Sherlock, it is. It’s not something to rush, and this would be...your first, right?”

 

“If you mean my first sexual encounter, no.” Well, that’s a surprise. “Assuming we’re including fellatio. But my first...quadrant, yes. And my first season spent with another person. I’ve never felt the need to...submit myself to the vagaries of my body.”

 

“And you do now?”

 

“No.” He leans forward, snuffling along the edge of John’s ear, tongue flicking out to taste the whorls of it. John stiffens, in more ways than one. “But I find that I would like to submit myself to the vagaries of  your  body.”

 

Sherlock does this on purpose, he thinks. The complete turnaround from uncertain and virginal to hungry and confident makes his head spin, makes him think of all the ways he wants to make Sherlock come apart; he wants to tear off his clothes, memorize every aspect of his biology, count the nobs of his spine with his tongue and kiss him, kiss him until they’re spent and gasping and undone.

 

He doesn’t do any of that. What he does is take a step backward, sucking in cool air while Sherlock’s lips turn down in a pout.

 

“I’m saying yes,” he says, in the face of that disappointment. “I’m definitely saying yes, but if we’re doing this, Sherlock, I’m going to give you time. Even if it’s only a few days, I want you to, to think about this. I know there are some people who fill their quadrants with someone different every sweep, but I’m not one of them. We already live together, and if we add this, this element to our relationship, I’m not going to let go of you again, and I won’t be happy with a...a ‘rails with pails sort of thing. Do you understand? I just want you to think about it.”

 

For a long minute they stare at each other, Sherlock stubborn to the end, John unwilling to cede his ground. It’s Sherlock who looks away first, swallowing hard and, slowly, nodding. “Your terms are...acceptable. Unnecessary, but acceptable.”

 

“Right. Good. Then I’ll just…”

 

He turns on his heel and marches towards the bathroom, Sherlock’s smirk an almost physical weight against his back.

 

\----

 

John doesn’t actually masturbate himself into a coma, but it’s a very near miss.

 

With drone season officially only a day away, every single shop within twenty kilometers of the Alternian Embassy has begun overstocking condoms, lube, and every kind of legal concupiscent aid imaginable. Their flat being in central London, John is unfortunately swallowed up by the tide of madness, and every time he leaves 221b he feels as though he’s being assaulted by the sheer, overwhelming fug of everyone else’s sex life. Young troll couples canoodle in the streets, mostly matesprits, feeding each other from their clawtips and putting off pheromones left and right. He even sees a few kismeses, remarkably subdued in preparation for the physical and mental strain of sustained caliginous relations.

 

And all the while, he thinks of Sherlock, who had seemed at once so confused and so utterly certain of what he wanted, and he thinks of how he wants Sherlock not only in his life, but in his quadrants, in all of them, even, because they fill each other’s needs in every way possible. There are days when he could cheerfully strangle Sherlock, and days when they patch each others’ wounds and watch awful telly together, and there are times like now, when all he wants is to push Sherlock against the nearest solid surface and kiss him until he’s breathless, until he’s forgotten how to think. Hell, they even auspisticize for each other, on occasion -- he’s not sure what else to call the relationship between himself, Sherlock, and Jim Moriarty (a name he’d prefer not to think of right now, really), and Sherlock has, on more than one occasion, prevented John and Mycroft from coming to blows.

 

And that’s...huge. It’s something that trolls can only dream about: the one true soulmate, the one who can fill every quadrant and more, who goes  beyond  quadrants. And he’s just sort of been handed Sherlock, on a silver platter, and he keeps telling himself that it can’t last. That Sherlock will think about this, and he’ll come to the conclusion that his brain was addled by the pheromones John’s been putting off, and why don’t they just call the whole thing off? In fact, why doesn’t John just move out, nix that particular problem entirely?

 

Two days of this. Two days of worrying, and nightmares fit to kill a man, and then going out into the weak Earth sunshine and being confronted with the evidence of everyone else’s functioning relationships.

 

It’s enough to make John seriously consider the nookworm that’s been unceremoniously relegated to the back of the pantry.

 

He returns from the clinic near the end of the second day, in fact the last day before his mandatory leave (the reason given being “reproductive health,” which, yeah, he supposes, but it’s funny to hear it so clinically), tired, sore, and unbelievably horny. Everything either makes him feel like fighting or sticking his hand down his pants, and it’s never been this bad before, never -- Sherlock’s done something to him, driven him ‘round the bend, because in the army you either quadranted with members of your unit or, if you couldn’t stand the thought of fucking them, you did without, and you bore the creepiness of the drones staring at you while you slept for a few weeks. And he’d done that, a few times, toughed it out on his own with a vibrator and a magazine or two, but it never felt like this, like lava running under his skin, like every nerve ending is connected to a live wire.

 

He gets himself into 221b and just leans against the door for a second, closing his eyes and hating it, hating that he’s going to have to do this alone, that Sherlock will say ‘no,’ because he’s thought about it and what  else  could Sherlock say? John knows he isn’t a catch: he’s short and average and he’s not particularly good-looking. His horns are large, sure, but the rest of him’s not much to talk about, and Sherlock is so much  more . Sherlock could have anyone he wanted, he could have  royalty  if he wanted, proper violet-bloods with gills and everything. Why would he waste his time with a damaged mid-spectrum soldier with a tremor and a frankly suicidal yearning for danger?

 

He takes a deep, fortifying breath. Right. What he’s going to do is, when Sherlock tells him no, he can’t do this, then John is going to ask him to be his moirail. Because if he can’t have Sherlock flushed, then he knows for a fact that they can make it pale; they’ve been unofficial moirails for months, now, and not even Sherlock can deny that. And it’ll be...awful, sometimes. He thinks they could be so much more, he feels it way down in the marrow of his bones, but all his feelings count for nothing if Sherlock doesn’t feel the same way. And it’s Sherlock, so of course he -- 

 

“Are you quite done having your panic attack?”

 

\-- has been standing there, watching him, for an unknown amount of time. John opens his eyes and discovers that Sherlock is...close. Unusually close. He might even say frighteningly close, invading John’s personal space, and he smells like ozone and chemicals and musk, he smells like river silt, the boundary between land and water, he smells like  home . John sways forward before he can stop himself, and Sherlock…

 

...lets him?

 

“Ah,” he says, and then indulgently pats John’s shoulder. “Good, I was wondering when we could get on with things. I’ve bought us some supplies."

 

“What?”

 

“I wasn’t sure where your preferences lay, so I borrowed Mycroft’s card and just got a bit of everything…”

 

“ What ?”

 

“You aren’t allergic to latex, are you? Mind, I’ve no objection to not using condoms at all, but I’m given to understand that it’s the polite thing to do.”

 

John isn’t entirely sure that this is actually happening. Perhaps he’s hit his head; he went out, and he was hit by a car, and now he’s lying in the gutter somewhere with a load of people phoning emergency services. He’s probably cracked a horn, and when he wakes up for real he’ll be in hospital and Sherlock will have texted him telling him to move out within the week, or…

 

Firm, long-fingered hands grip his cheeks, forcing his head up and straight. In this position it’s either look Sherlock in the eye or risk goring him with his horns, and so John holds perfectly still, his breathing gradually slowing, evening out. He hadn’t even been aware of it speeding up.

 

“John,” Sherlock says,  basso profundo , his voice a solid pressure between John’s eyes and tingling throughout his horns. “You’re panicking. Why? You told me to think about it, and I’ve thought about it, even though it was tedious and entirely unnecessary. And here I am, and here you are, so why are you panicking?”

 

His fingers dig into John’s cheeks, filed-down claws leaving little more than half-moon crescents in his skin. John reaches up and returns the gesture, slides his palms against Sherlock’s neck, up along his ridiculous cheekbones, into his hair. The contrast between human-pink skin and John’s ashen grey is...more titillating than he had expected.

 

“This is real,” he says, and Sherlock blinks, catlike. “I mean, this isn’t a dream. And I’m not hallucinating.”

 

“Are you having some sort of psychotic break? Interesting. I was aware that I might be considered attractive in some respects, but I didn’t think it was enough to drive men to insanity.”

 

It’s typical of Sherlock’s jokes: a little biting, said a little too seriously, but John recognizes them at this point, and his immediate response is to pinch Sherlock’s ear until he makes a low whining noise at the back of his throat. “Git,” he accuses, and Sherlock smiles at him, all teeth. “So you’re...all right, then? With this?”

 

“Be more specific. With having sex with you? Obviously. With embarking on a romantic relationship with you? I was under the impression that we’ve been doing precisely that for some time now. This is merely an added facet.”

 

“Then I can still...take care of you? If you need it?” He’s not sure how else to phrase it. You can’t just ask someone to fill all your quadrants, not without knowing exactly where you stand, but Sherlock is looking at him like he’s said something good and brilliant, and not at all surprising.

 

“If I need it,” he says, and pushes forward, nosing at John’s jawline, the corner of his mouth. “When. And I shall continue to annoy you and nettle you, and you will infuriate me with your occasional lapses into dullness -- “

 

“Oi!”

 

“ -- and then we shall come home and we shall kiss and make up, as the expression goes. I will not be folded neatly away into one of your ridiculous quadrants, John. I intend to fill every aspect of your life, I will push you and I will not know when it is appropriate to stop, and I will worship you until the sun dies, and if that is not something that you are prepared for then tell me now, otherwise I shall have you and I will not let you leave.”

 

Every word makes John’s knees feel weaker and weaker, all of his blood rushing down to his groin in a tidal surge that has him sagging against the door, Sherlock crowding against his front and pinning him there with his weight. “Yes,” John says, “ yes ,” and Sherlock finally, finally ducks down and kisses him. It’s awkward at first, their noses bumping and neither of them quite sure what to do with their tongues, until John realizes that it’s because they’re both trying to control the kiss at once. He arches himself firmly against Sherlock, locks his arms around thin shoulders and angles his head to account for a taller partner, and  there, that’s better, more like that first kiss. Sherlock still tastes of salt and tea, and John curls his tongue through his mouth, chasing every hint of him; Sherlock’s tongue is tinged purple-pink, shorter and less flexible than John’s, but stronger, and he easily bullies his way into John’s mouth, past his fangs and searching his gumlines and the sharp points of his teeth.

 

They stand there for long minutes, breathing each other, saliva messy on their lips while John’s jeans get more and more uncomfortable. Sherlock’s in the same boat, firm and unmoving against John’s belly, and he wonders what he looks like under all those posh clothes, if his bulge is alien or more familiar. He wants to know, wants to catalogue every difference and similarity, make a list of all the things Sherlock likes: if he sucks him, eats his arse, fucks his mouth, which will get the best response, which will make him come the fastest, the hardest? If John uses Alternian terminology, will Sherlock laugh or moan? Are they even compatible, physically?

 

He’s thinking too much again -- he hadn’t considered the idea that giving themselves a day or two before doing anything was as much for his benefit as it was for Sherlock’s, but he’s not terribly surprised that his own insecurities are more immediate than his friend’s. All of his prior relationships have been short-term, two or more people smashed together for drone season, or because it was convenient and moirallegiance and kismessitude were encouraged in equal measure while he was in the army. This is different, this is, hopefully, permanent and  important , and Sherlock has always jumped into those sorts of things feet first.

 

And John has always jumped right after him, heedless of the danger. Chasing the excitement, the madness, the brilliance like a flower turning towards the sun.

 

They break apart, resting their foreheads together; John’s horns bump against the base of Sherlock’s, just a bit, and they wince together. Sherlock’s are small, sweeping back over his head, two-pronged and lean and elegant like the rest of him; John’s, bullish, are aggressively forward, curved just slightly, a foot long and sharp as knives. They are a startling contrast, the pair of them, and John hesitantly reaches up to run his fingers along the length of Sherlock’s right horn. He gets a softly indrawn breath in response, Sherlock’s eyes fluttering closed.

 

John clears his throat, fascinated by the velvety texture of the bases, where the blood flow is strongest, by the smooth, unmarred feel of the bone. “Supplies?” he croaks, because even though he could stay here for hours, petting Sherlock’s horns and kissing him stupid, his genitals have become rather unruly. His pants are probably a complete loss at this point, going by the slick feeling between his legs, but he still has high hopes for his jeans. Thankfully, Sherlock is either less dazed than he seems or just better at snapping back to himself a bit faster, because he shakes his head once and then grabs John by the wrist, hauling him bodily through the flat. It’s all John can do to keep up with him without stumbling, and they barely manage to end up in Sherlock’s bedroom before they’re coming together again, John finding Sherlock’s throat with his mouth and pressing the knife-edges of his teeth there. Pulse fluttering fast and high under his tongue, the barest hint of blood, and John backs off immediately, laves the small nick with his tongue until Sherlock’s breath is hitching and he’s pushing his hips insistently against John’s.

 

“Condoms,” he says, and John lets up, remembering in a vague sort of way the fact that Sherlock has never done this before. Apart from ‘fellatio,’ apparently, though that in and of itself covers a rather broad range of acts. Which he’s now thinking about. God. “Lubricant, in case there’s penetration, I wasn’t sure whether oil or water-based would be better…”

 

“I certainly don’t need it,” John says, and, feeling wicked, pops the button of his denims, tugs down the zip, and guides Sherlock’s hands inside; his pants are damp at the front, almost soaked a bit further down, and his bulge twitches and writhes against the cotton, trying to grasp at Sherlock’s fingers. He’s fascinated by Sherlock’s face, his lips parted in round surprise, his tongue darting out to lick, eyes wide, flush high on his cheeks. He moves his hand, curls his fingers, and John groans, deep, full-bodied,  wanting .

 

“Oh God,” Sherlock says. He visibly swallows, and adds, “The selection of, ah, sexual aids was...was limited, but given you already possess a vibrator, I opted for something a bit less, a bit…”

 

“Later,” John says, and decides that if Sherlock is going to be methodical about this then maybe they can just worry about clean-up after the fact. Which, in all honesty, was what he’d been getting at with the ‘supplies’ line of inquiry. Right now, though, all he wants is to climb Sherlock like a tree, push him down and ride his prick until John soaks both of them, wants to send that Embassy container back empty with a smug note saying  Sherlock Holmes is mine, and no one else can have him .

 

There’s a shopping bag on the bed, and John, after gently extricating Sherlock’s hand from the cotton-covered trap of his amorous bulge, goes to investigate, jeans slipping off his hips. They’re annoying, so he toes off his shoes and shucks them the rest of the way down, prompting a startled, somewhat alarming noise from Sherlock. John’s busy shuffling through the contents of the bag: potentially a year’s supply of lube (may be useful, depending on their respective anatomies), human condoms (a nice thought, and maybe good for oral, but wholly useless in John’s case), and a small, metal egg-shaped device with a twistable base. He gives it a turn, and it vibrates to life in his palm, pulsing straight up his arm.  Strong.  He glances over his shoulder, finds Sherlock watching him, his trousers tented and his mouth partly open, as though he gasped and then forgot to close it.

 

John has never seen a more gorgeous thing in his life. And he’s seen the Alternian sunrise, even.

 

“Come here, you,” he says, and shoves the bag out of the way. Sherlock makes that noise again, terrible in its capacity for desire, and drifts forward until they’re standing chest to chest again. Whatever courage prompted Sherlock to buy his ‘supplies’ and then accost John in the sitting room seems to have been sublimated by a lack of experience, and his hands are gentle and hesitant when they flutter over John’s narrow hips, the curve of his arse. There’ll be time for roughness later, for desperate, frantic fucking on whatever surface is available to them. Right now, he’s perfectly content to let Sherlock set the pace, and if that means lying back and just exploring each others’ bodies, then that’s fine.

 

“You’re wearing too many clothes.” Sherlock looks down, at his trousers and his posh dress shirt (has he even left the flat today?), his feet bare and delicately arched. John’s only without his jeans, but at least he’s a bit closer to naked. As incentive, he tucks his fingers into the hem of his shirt and tugs upward, maneuvering it over and off his horns. In naught but pants and socks, he sets himself on the bed, scooting until he’s not in danger of tipping off the edge.

 

Sherlock nearly falls all over himself getting his kit off, and, unlike John, he doesn’t stop at his pants; the shirt goes flying, the trousers and a flash of tight black boxers vanish somewhere off to the left, and Sherlock falls to the bed on his hands and knees, crawling until he’s settled over John’s thighs.

 

And John gets his first good look at Sherlock in the altogether.

 

He’s lean and pale everywhere, splotches of purple at his cheeks and down the front of his chest; a smattering of fine black hair covers his pectorals, and John smooths his palm through it, fascinated. Humans have body hair, of course, but this is Sherlock, vulnerable and exposed, and he takes his time cataloguing the differences: the hair, the different musculature beneath the thinner skin, nipples (mammal after all, he thinks fondly). Sherlock rocks back onto his heels, and John’s hand skates lower, over his belly (a navel, even!), then lower still, to a thicket of almost downy pubic hair, and Sherlock’s prick straining upwards, curved and eager. It is human shaped, but long and slender, and when John takes it in his hand and rubs his thumb against the glans he finds it to be surprisingly flexible. It’s muscle, not just tissue, then. Sherlock rocks his hips forward, pushing his cock through the ring of John’s fingers and huffing in dismay when John doesn’t obligingly tighten his fist.

 

“Testicles?” he asks, and the eye-roll he gets is, quite frankly, a work of art.

 

“Internal. As I’m assuming yours are.”

 

“Damn. Never had anyone’s bollocks in my mouth, was sort of looking forward to trying it.”

 

“I can think of something else I should like in your mouth. Or any orifice, really.” Sherlock looks briefly intrigued. “Are ears a ‘thing’ for you?”

 

“You aren’t fucking my ear.”

 

“I suggested nothing of the sort.”

 

John laughs, rolls them over until he’s the one on Sherlock’s lap. His pants are absolutely ruined, green-tinged and damp, and he grinds himself down on Sherlock’s groin, shuddering at the lazy flare of heat in his belly. His hands wander as they will, down Sherlock’s thighs, studiously avoiding his purple-red cock, dipping between his legs to find...nothing. No nook. Sherlock, perhaps seeing John’s mildly dismayed expression, spreads his legs a bit further apart and says, “Is something the matter?”

 

“No. Well, nothing we can’t work around. Is anal sex on the table for you?”

 

“I don’t know.” Sherlock sounds contemplative, at least. “I’ve never tried. You penetrating me, or the other way around?”

 

“Either. Both.”

 

“I find the idea...stimulating.” Yes, the twitching prick against Sherlock’s belly is proof of that. “I suppose we’ll only know if we try.”

 

“Later,” John repeats, and shifts his arse, lifts his hips so that he can slide his pants down to his thighs. A bit of complicated wriggling and kicking later, and he drops the offending garment over the side of the bed, his bulge finally sliding fully free of its sheath, revealing beneath it the wet, darkened green edges of his nook.

 

Sherlock looks  fascinated.  His eyes dart upwards to John, then down again, tongue flickering against his lips. John thinks about holding himself above Sherlock, Sherlock’s pale, cupid’s bow lips pressing against his nook, tongue slipping inside while John’s bulge played with his hair…

 

“May I?” Yes, of course,  anything . Sherlock barely waits for John to nod before his hands are everywhere , God , the man’s an octopus: clawtips trail down his chest, pausing to investigate his pectorals, his abdomen, all smooth, grey skin, skimming lower to investigate his bulge, the flexible muscle curling against Sherlock’s wrist in an attempt to push his hand lower.

 

“You have a tentacle,” Sherlock says, and John snorts.

 

“What, you didn’t learn Alternian anatomy in school?”

 

“Oh, I’m sure I attended something on the matter, but doubtless I deleted it.” His lips pursed. “I’ll have to do some research, now that it’s relevant.”

 

“Thanks, s’very,  ngh,  kind of you.” Sherlock does that again, very gently pinching the tip of John’s bulge. It goes wild, thrashing and searching for something, anything to bury itself in while John only narrowly resists the urge to shove two fingers into his sodden nook. “God, Sherlock, you’ll be the death of me.”

 

“I certainly hope not, we haven’t even had proper intercourse yet.” He moves his attentions down, and John keeps rocking his hips forward, riding Sherlock’s thighs while his bulge twists messily against his belly, leaving smears of green in its wake. He moves with a bit more purpose when Sherlock hooks his fingers against the edges of John’s nook, spreading them until he can wriggle one just barely inside. Sherlock looks like he’s about to say something, and John cuts him off.

 

“Nook,” he preemptively corrects. “Not vagina. I’m one-hundred percent male, thanks.”

 

“I  do remember that much.”

 

“Yeah, well, you never know these days.”

 

“I’m insulted. Wounded, John.”

 

“Oh, I’ll wound you if you don’t get your fingers in my --  God, yes .” There. There, there,  there , Sherlock’s long fingers sliding up into him, curling, massaging inside him. Not enough to scratch that maddening internal itch, but he humps down anyways, cursing, thighs tightening while Sherlock looks at him like he’s seen the face of God. It’s so worshipful, so  gorgeous , and John wants to tell him he’s nothing special, he’s not even all that good a catch, quadrant-wise, but then Sherlock takes his other hand and he uses it to guide John’s bulge to his prick. The autonomous desire to  grasp does the rest, his bulge twirling from base to glans, discovering Sherlock’s slit, leaking precome, and latching on like a limpet.

 

“Beautiful,” Sherlock says, voice a raw, rough-edged gasp as he tilts his pelvis, letting John rut against him, letting him do all the work, the lazy sod. He says “ John ” like a prayer, his hand caught between them, three fingers in John’s nook flicking and rubbing and  good . It’s been too long, it’s been forever, not since even before he was shot; he pushes forward, bulge slicking along Sherlock’s prick in a loose hold, then down, onto Sherlock’s fingers, and they discover a rhythm that way, sweaty and slow and glorious. He could do this for hours, this lovely, spiraling high, riding Sherlock’s hand and fucking against his cock, until the bed’s soaked with them, until the whole flat smells like them.

 

Sherlock makes precious little noise but for when he’s speaking, and John’s looking forward to seeing if he can break him of that habit, but for right now it’s good, it’s fine, Sherlock dazed and muttering golden praise, “John, good, you’re good,  John ,” and he can feel the muscles in Sherlock’s prick contracting, getting ready. John doubles his efforts, ignoring the fingers in his nook in favor of trying to direct his bulge: the base snug against Sherlock’s pubic hair, the tip rubbing restless and seeking against glans and frenulum and foreskin. He shoves forward, and the pressure and the friction must do it, because Sherlock seizes up and shoves his one free hand against his mouth, choking off a wordless sob as he comes. He’s lovely, so lovely, and his semen beads pearly and smelling strongly of salt along the length of John’s bulge; it’s so close to enough that he could scream.

 

“Sherlock,” he says, “Sherlock, I need, please, fuck me, fuck me,  come on .” Sherlock, lazy and redolent beneath him, blinking slowly in the post-orgasmic haze, bless him because he doesn’t ask questions or tell John that fucking’s out of the question given the state of his genitals, he only adjusts his position and grinds the heel of his palm against the base of John’s bulge while he plunges three fingers in and in and  in . They don’t reach as far as they should, but it’s enough, and John rocks frantically against the pressure for maybe a minute longer before he comes shouting. Spunk coats Sherlock’s fingers, a wet, green-tinged flood, while his bulge flexes and leaks and finally, finally slackens. He pants for breath while Sherlock slowly, carefully pulls his fingers free. They make the most appalling squelching noise, and John snorts, then pushes himself off of Sherlock’s lap and rolls onto his back. His bulge gradually retracts back into its sheath, and Sherlock watches with obvious fascination. Unaroused, John’s bulge and nook are internal, only a seam of soft, vulnerable skin to mark the opening to his sheath, and Sherlock curiously runs his green-streaked fingers over the too-sensitive edges. John hisses, but permits the touch until it threatens to become uncomfortable, at which point he roughly prods Sherlock in the side. “Stop that,” he says, “plenty of time to examine me later.”

 

“I thought we would be having more sex later.”

 

“Exactly my point.”

 

Sherlock is not a post-orgasm cuddler, it seems, and John’s horns have always made lying with a partner a tad difficult. Still, the bed is large enough for the both of them to be side by side, Sherlock running his palm over John’s forearm and John breathing, breathing, telling himself that this isn’t a dream. It’s real, and Sherlock wants him, and together they’re going to solve mysteries and catch criminals, and when they come home they’ll kiss and fuck and snipe at each other, and it will be  perfect .

 

He gets maybe ten minutes of peace and silence, wallowing in the lovely feeling of being wanted, before Sherlock says, “You’re sure about the ears, then?”

He laughs. Laughs until his sides hurt, Sherlock looking mildly offended, and then he leans across the short gap between them to kiss the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, sweet and slow and chaste.

 

“You’ve got a few weeks to convince me,” he says, and Sherlock smiles against his mouth, all teeth and the promise of things to come.


End file.
